The Z Strain
Book One
Tuesday, August 13th, 2019, 6:19 PM CST
Flight 191 from Chicago O’Hare to Denver International
Gwen Harris walks down the isle of an airplane with red seats. She scans the seat numbers as she makes her way towards the back of the plane, she finds her seat and places her small black carryon bag into the overhead compartment. She flops down into the airline chair and rests her head against the headrest. She takes a deep breath as she watches the other passengers moving around the plane, putting their luggage away, and getting settled into their seats. The airport had been chaotic from the moment she hit the curb. Gwen leaned her seat back and took her book out of her purse, thinking to herself that as much as she loved coming to visit her best friend Penny, she vowed never to fly in and out of O’Hare again. She took the bookmark out and began reading.
At thirty-two years of age, Gwen Harris considered herself to be an attractive woman. She wore black horned glasses that she thought made her look hip, her auburn hair fell just below her shoulders and usually had a slight curl to it. She had light brown eyes with green flex. Though many men had pursued her over the years, she had never found anything that she had considered to be too serious. Part of her believed that men were just simply too immature for adult relationships. Though she also conceded that she had, almost without exception, put her career before her relationships. She’s been working her tail off between medical school and working as a nurse to pay for it, she didn’t have time for meaningless relationships with immature men, or at least that’s what she always told herself. But at the end of the day she would love to have a nice warm body lying in the bed next to her.
Gwen set down the book in her lap, it looks to be a trashy romance novel by the cover. Pulling her phone out of her bag she pushes a few buttons and opens her photo album. She flips through the pictures from her first vacation in nearly eight years. As a young medical professional, time away from the hospital was rarely found. She had considered dating someone from her field, but most men in the medical profession (from her experience) are maniacally egocentric, self-obsessed socially inept children with the inability to relate with any other human being other than to give advice or criticism. Flipping through picture after picture of herself and her best friend from childhood Penny Miller, pictures in front of the Sears Tower, Pictures from Medieval Times, and pictures of the two of them in their bikinis out by the lake. It had been the best week she could remember for a very, very long time. Her entire life since she was in her middle teens had been dedicated to her education, dedicated to her career, everything else was a distant second.
But Gwen didn’t regret her life, she loved it, she had a very close-knit small group of friends, who, despite their busy schedules, found time to go out at least once every couple weeks. Her loving, though frequently overbearing, sister lived only about five minutes from her, though their adult relationship hadn’t flourished as when they were children. They were simply very different people, with very different point of views, who found it challenging to maintain a conversation without it turning into an argument.
Still flipping through pictures, she giggled when she saw the picture that Penny had taken an extreme close up shot of Deon Norton’s rear end, the only player for the Cubs whom Gwen had admitted to finding attractive. She sets the camera back into her purse and lets her eyelids close and dozes off quickly.
She doesn’t awaken until a hand touches her shoulder, Gwen jolts awake to hear the captain making the announcement that they are beginning their descent and to return seats their upright and locked position. She does as she’s told and begins gathering her belongings.
Ten minutes later she finds herself standing at the baggage carousel, Gwen rubs her eyes and temples as her head has begun to throb. It seems to her as though a hundred people must have come and gone, only herself and a man in his 50s with a long grey trench coat have been standing there patiently for minutes awaiting the arrival of their luggage while dozens of others walk up for 30 seconds, grab their luggage and go about their day.
“Always seems like yours is the last one out too?” she says to her carousel companion, he looks her direction, seemingly annoyed by the fact that she spoke to him and returns his attention to the endless cycle of revolving baggage. About a minute later her black suitcase finally falls from the heavens, and she’s finally able to make her way back to her blue Nissan sitting in the long-term parking garage. As she slides into the seat, she immediately reaches over, opening the glove box and pulls out a bottle of aspirin. She takes three and throws them into her mouth, swallowing hard without water. She closes her eyes, leans her head back, and rubs her temples for a moment before starting the car. The trip to Boulder goes by quickly and there is little traffic driving out of Denver. Her thoughts are filled with work, a small part of her dreading going back to work in the morning, another part of her excited to tell her coworkers about her vacation.
It is fully dark outside when she arrives at her home on Laurel Ave. She pulls into the driveway and throws the car into park. She sits for a moment before exiting and removing her luggage from back seat. Inside she sets her bags down by the front door and looks at the empty apartment. Her white fluffy sofa looks very inviting after the nap in the uncomfortable airplane seat. Over on the counter leading into the kitchen her only dependent, a fichus plant looks a little worse for wear. After a week without water a few of the leaves had dried up and fallen off.
“Oh, you poor thing. Did I neglect you?” Gwen asked the plant. It did not respond. She walks over to the sink and gets a cup full of water. She returns to the counter and waters her green friend. She looks over to the doorway seeing mail all over the floor in her entryway. The mailman had been pushing them through the slot in her front door for the last week.
“Good lord.” She sighs walking across the living room and squats down in the entryway and begins gathering the mail. She places the pile of mail in a wicker basket that sits on the end table. She kicks her shoes off into the middle of the living room floor and falls down onto the couch. She glances to the answering machine, the number eight blinking in red. The answering machine starts playing a message from a telemarketer, some mortgage company, she considered pressing the skip button, but fell asleep instead.
Laurel Ave, Boulder Colorado
Thursday, August 15th, 7:34 A.M.
Gwen’s eyes open to an empty, gloomy apartment. The early morning sun is sending beams of light through the darkened living room illuminating every piece of dust in the air. Gwen stretches out, her legs spreading off of the couch. She groans, and she strains to force her eyes to focus on the clock hanging on the far wall. She jumps up from the couch, alarmed.
“Shit.” She exclaims, realizing she has less than an hour to be to work at the hospital. She rushes through her shower and gets dressed. She throws on a pair of green scrubs, puts her hair into a quick pony tail and heads for the living room. Trotting out the door she nearly slips and falls on a half dozen pieces of mail in her entryway. She pauses for a moment in disbelief, staring down at them.
“What the fuck?” She says to the empty room. She bends down and begins slowly picking up the mail. She was honestly considering if it was possible that she had missed these yesterday when she arrived home. “There’s no way.” She reassures herself. She walked through her day yesterday, coming home, watering the plant, seeing all the mail, picking it up, and putting it in the basket. She was a hundred percent confident that she did not leave mail lying in the foyer which means she missed a mail delivery.
She turns back to the living room and turns on the television, confused. Good Morning America is on. She looks at the date at the bottom of the screen and reads the date,
it reads Thursday, August 15th. She got home Tuesday. It takes a moment for it to sink in, but finally she realizes that she had slept for nearly thirty hours. Sitting back down on the couch her purse falls from her hands onto the floor. She looks over to the answering machine which is now blinking the number thirteen. She hadn’t slept through a phone call in years, let alone five of them.
She presses the PLAY button on the answering machine and rubs her temples. She hits the delete button on the first two messages, having already hear them before falling asleep. The next one was an automated message from her insurance company reminding her that her insurance payment is due next week. The next was thirty seconds of silence, Gwen pressed skip. The next two were from friends who apparently didn’t know she was going out of town. Finally getting into the new messages, the first two were from her boss wondering why she hadn’t made it to work yesterday.
“Hey Gwen, its Mike. I thought you were coming back from vacation today, give me a call, and let me know what’s going on.” Beep
“Hey Gwen, it’s Mike again. It’s almost noon and I still haven’t heard from you, everyone I asked said that you were flying in yesterday, and that you’d be back today, so please call me. Okay, talk to ya.” Beep
The last three were all from her sister, who presumably had her itinerary memorized and was losing her mind that a day and a half had passed since the plane landed and she hadn’t gotten an “I’m home and alive” call.
“Gwen, its Stacy. I called your work, you weren’t there, call me ASAP.” Beep
“Gwen, I called your neighbor, she said your car was out front, but no one answered when she knocked. Gwennie, where are you? Please call me as soon as you get this. Love you.” Beep
“Gwen I’m getting very worried here, if I don’t hear from you soon, I’m calling the police, call me.” Beeeeeep.
“End of messages” Says the robot voice from inside the little box.
“Jesus, what the hell is going on?” Gwen asks to herself. She picks up the phone and dials her sister.
“Where the fuck have you been? I was scared out of my mind.” Her sister Stacy yells through the phone.
“Stace, you probably won’t believe me, but I was here, asleep.” Gwen explained.
“You’re right, I don’t believe you. How come you didn’t answer the door when Mrs. Parson’s knocked?”
“Wow, I must have slept right through it.” Gwen said.
“Bullshit, you?” Her sister sounded amazed.
“Hand to Christ.”
“So, everything’s okay then?” Stacy sounded skeptical.
“Yea, I guess. I’ve had a pounding headache since I got home. I guess I was just super tired after my whirlwind vacation.”
“Okay, call me later.” Stacey didn’t sound confident. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, I must have just been exhausted. I have to call Mike back. I’ll call you tonight okay? Love ya.”
“You too Gwennie. Don’t forget to call me, I want details.”
Gwen presses the red button on the phone disconnecting the call. She pressed the green one and dialed her boss. She spoke as soon as the line connected.
“Mike?”
“Gwen? Is everything okay? I tried to call you all day yesterday.”
“I know, I’m sorry, Mike I slept the whole day. I woke up this morning thinking it was yesterday.”
“Are you serious?” He asked, astounded.
“As a heart attack.”
“Wow, must’ve been some vacation, anything I need to know?”
“It’s nothing like that Mike, I was feeling a bit under the weather when I flew in, apparently I was pretty sick if I needed thirty-six hours sleep.”
“Yea? I could use one of those colds myself.” He chuckled.
“Listen Mike, if it’s all the same, you mind if I just plan on coming back in tomorrow. I still don’t feel quite right.”
“Gwen I was going to tell you to take the day off anyway, we can get your shift covered.”
“Okay, good. I’ll call you in the morning if anything changes.”
“Okay, get some rest, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye Mike.”
“Bye.”
Gwen hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen. Wondering why if she hadn’t eaten in nearly two days why she wasn’t starving. She picks up and apple and begins to nibble. Almost immediately her stomach rejects it, and she vomits violently into the sink to the point that she begins to dry heave. She walks unsteadily back to the phone and calls her doctor to make an appointment.
Four hours later Gwen is sitting uncomfortably on the examination chair in one of several exam rooms in Dr. Meadow’s office. The nurse had already been in, and taken her vitals, had asked several questions regarding her condition and left the room. She returned about ten minutes later and asked Gwen to disrobe handing her a paper smock. She then wheeled a small cart over and took several ampules of blood. That was over a half hour ago and Gwen was becoming impatient. She was about to peek into the hall to make sure they hadn’t forgotten about her when the shiny bald head of Dr. Meadows moved through the door, his eyes never moving from the chart, he walks in and sits down onto the stool seemingly on instinct. He is in his sixties, a little old school, but is usually very friendly, personable and thorough. Though today he only makes brief eye contact with Gwen and sat there staring at the chart for a full minute before speaking.
“And you say that you slept for nearly two full days?” He asked.
“No, about a day and half. I got home a little after nine, on Tuesday, went straight to sleep when I got home, and didn’t wake up until seven in the morning on Thursday.”
“I see.” Dr. Meadows still hasn’t looked up from the chart. Now a long and awkward silence has filled the room. Gwen shifts from side to side uncomfortably on the paper of the exam table.
“Dr. Meadows?” She finally asks sheepishly.
“Oh, oh yes, Gwen, I’m very sorry. It’s just . . . this chart doesn’t make any sense.” He removes his small round wire framed glasses from his face and rubs his eyes. “Your blood is reacting as if it were fighting an infection, but there is no infection that I can see, you have an almost nonexistent count of white blood cells, and I watched several red cells die right under the microscope.”
“What does that mean?”
“Gwen, I have been in medicine for nearly forty years, and honestly honey, I don’t have a clue.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Let’s not start panicking just yet, I’ve sent a sample of your blood to, a specialist, to get a second opinion. In the meantime, I’m going to run a few more tests, and make a few phone calls. Why don’t you let the nurse take your vitals again and I’ll check back in a few minutes okay?”
“Sure.” Gwen said. More waiting. The nurse came in, took her blood pressure, and temperature again. Writing everything down in her file.
“What do you think?” Gwen asked.
“Oh, I’m not a doctor.” The nurse replied.
“I know.” Gwen said. “But you looked at the chart, what do you think?”
“I’m not supposed to.”
“What do you think?” Gwen insisted.
“If I had to make a guess, and it is only a guess.”
“I understand.” Gwen said trying to encourage her to continue.
“I would say virus. But it’s not acting like any virus I’ve ever seen before.” The nurse said. “Whatever it is, it has Dr. Meadows spooked.”
“Well that’s not very comforting.” Gwen said.
“I Know, I’m sorry. I’m really not supposed to.” The nurse was interrupted by the door opening, Dr. Meadows was standing in the entryway looking a little flustered.
“I’m afraid it’s going to be a while until we have the results of your blood work back, they said they’re putting a rush on it, and asked if you could stay for a bit. You can put your clothes back on and move out into the waiting room if
you’d like.”
“Dr. Meadows, what’s going on?” He looked at her and frowned. She thought he was carefully thinking about what to say next. He let out a long exhale rubbing his hand on his bald crown.
“I don’t know yet Gwen, but they asked that we wait for them to contact us. We need to be patient, I’m sure we’ll hear something back soon.” With that Dr. Meadows turned and exited the room quickly and moved down the hall. Gwen shook her head, knowing in her heart that something was very wrong, but did as she was told. She put her clothes back on, her head was spinning.
She moved through the waiting room on a cloud. She felt like she was outside looking in on this story and this wasn’t her life. This couldn’t possibly be her reality. She walked out through the glass doors that read B. Meadows M.D. She walked down the stairs and walked out the front door. There was a young man with shoulder length brown hair wearing a Metallica jacket standing near the front doors smoking a cigarette.
“Mind if I bum one of those from you?” The young man looked up surprised.
“Ah, yea sure.” He pulls out a pack of Marlboros and hands her one.
“Can I get a light?” He nods, lighting the cigarette for her with a zippo pulled off a leather holster on his belt. Gwen takes a long deep pull off the cigarette and immediately starts coughing.
“You alright lady?”
“Yea, I just haven’t smoked in nearly eight years.” She said looking at the cigarette in her hand. It tasted terrible, but she took another drag anyway.
“What made you start today?” He asked putting the cigarettes back into his jacket pocket.
“I don’t know, stress I guess.” The young man nods indifferently. He turns away and begins to text on his phone signaling to Gwen that he was all finished with the conversation.
Atlanta Georgia – Center for Disease Control
Thursday, August 15th, 11:57 AM
Kirk Foley was the director of the Center for Disease control, this was his seventh year as director, his eleventh year overall. Mr. Foley reports to a General Grover who reports directly to the president. He had arrived at his office at exactly 5:52 AM, though he wasn’t scheduled in until seven, he had been called in early by General Grover himself. In his tenure at the CDC Mr. Foley had never received a call at home from the General, so he assumed it was something serious.
The Z Strain Page 1